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those mysterious noises in the Cage Chamber (for so it was commonly called in the family) which she had been induced to expect by the representations of the departed servants. This quiet, however, was of very short duration. One night she was awakened from her sleep by the sound of a slow and measured step, that appeared to be pacing the chamber overhead; it continued to move backwards and forwards with nearly the same constant and regular motion for rather more than an hour-perhaps Lady Pennyman's agitation might have deceived her, and induced her to think the time longer than it really was. It at length ceased; morn dawned upon her, and she went down to breakfast, after framing a resolution not to mention the event.
Lady Pennyman and her daughters had nearly completed their breakfast, before her son, a young man who had lately returned from sea, descended from his apartment. "My dear Charles," said his mother, "I wonder you are not ashamed of your indolence and your want of gallantry, to suffer your sisters and myself to finish breakfast before you are ready to join us." "Indeed, madam," he replied, "it is not my fault if I am late: I have not had any sleep all night. There have been people knocking at my door and peeping into my room every half hour since I went up stairs to bed: I presume they wanted to see if my candle was extinguished. If this be the case, it is really very distressing; as I certainly never gave you any occasion to suspect I should be careless in taking so necessary a precaution; and it is not pleasant to be represented in such a light to the domestics." "Indeed, my dear, the interruption has taken place entirely without my knowledge. I assure you it is not by any order of mine that your room has been looked into: I cannot think what could induce any servant of mine to be guilty of such a liberty. Are you certain that you have not mistaken the nature and origin of the sound by which your sleep has been disturbed ?"—"Oh, no; there could have been no mistake: I was perfectly awake when the interruption first took place, and afterwards it was so frequently repeated as to prevent the possibility of my sleeping."
More complaints from the housekeeper; no servant would remain; every individual of the family had his tale of
terror to increase the apprehensions of the rest; Lady Pennyman began to be herself alarmed. Mrs. Atkins, a woman devoid of every kind of superstitious fear, and of tried courage, understanding, and resolution, determined at once to silence all the stories that had been fabricated respecting the Cage Room, and to allay their terrors by adopting that apartment: for her own bedchamber during the remainder of her residence at Lisle. A bed was accordingly placed in the apartment. The Cage Room was rendered as comfortable as possible on so short a notice; and Mrs. Atkins retired to rest, attended by her favourite spaniel.
Mrs. Atkins now examined her chamber in every direction: she sounded every panel of the wainscot, to prove that there was no hollowness, which might arguesa concealed passage; and, having bolted the door of the Cage Room, retired to rest. Her assurance was doomed to be shortlived: she had only been a few minutes asleep when her dog, which lay by the bedside, leaped, howling and terrified, upon the bed; the door of the chamber slowly opened, and a pale, thin, sickly youth came in, cast his eyes mildly towards her, walked up to the iron cage in the middle of the room, and then leaned in the melancholy attitude of one revolving in his mind the sorrows of a cheerless and unblest existence. After a while he again withdrew, and retired by the way he entered.
Mrs. Atkins, on witnessing his departure, felt the return of her resolution; she persuaded herself to believe the figure the work of some skilful impostor, and she determined on following its footsteps: she took up her chamber lamp, and hastened to put her design in execution. On reaching the door, to her infinite surprise, she discovered it to be fastened, as she had herself left it, on retiring to her bed. On withdrawing the bolt and opening the door, she saw the back of the youth descending the staircase; she followed, till, on reaching the foot of the stairs, the form appeared to sink into the earth. It was in vain to attempt concealing the occurrences of the night: her voice, her manner, the impossibility of sleeping a second time in the ill omened chamber, would necessarily betray that something of a painful and mysterious nature had occurred.
The event was related to Lady Pennyman: she determined to remain no longer in her present habitation. The The man of whom the house had been engaged was spoken to on the subject: he became extremely violent-said it was no time for the English to indulge their imaginationsinsinuated something of the guillotine-and bade her, at her peril, drop a single expression to the injury of his property. While she remained in France, not a word was uttered upon the subject; she framed an excuse for her abrupt departure: another residence was offered in the vicinity of Lisle, which she engaged, on a pretext of its being better calculated to the size of her family; and at once relinquished her habitation, and with it every preternatural occasion of anxiety.
Although the preceding story "smells of the cloister," is somewhat tinctured with romance, and has been enlarged upon by successive narrators, the facts are authenticated and accredited by the parties to whom they occurred. An old deserted house at Lisle would probably be an object of terror to weak minds, but not to the understandings of the well-educated heads of a family, as well as to the several members of a large establishment.
THE STORY OF SIR CHARLES LEE'S DAUGHTER.
Sir Charles Lee, by his first lady, had only one daughter, of which she died in child-birth; and when she was dead, her sister, the Lady Everard, desired to have the education of the child, and she was by her very well educated, till she was marriageable, and a match was concluded for her with Sir William Perkins, but was then prevented in an extraordinary manner. Upon a Thursday night, she, thinking she saw a light in her chamber after she was in bed, knocked for her maid, who presently came to her; and she asked, "Why she left a candle burning in her chamber ?" The maid said that she had left none, and there was none but what she brought with her at that time. Then she said
it was the fire; but that, her maid told her, was quite out; and said she believed it was only a dream. Whereupon she said it might be so, and composed herself again to sleep. But about two of the clock she was awakened again, and saw the apparition of a little woman between her curtain and her pillow, who told her she was her mother, that she was happy, and that by twelve of the clock that day she 1 should be with her. Whereupon she knocked again for her maid, called for her clothes, and when she was dressed, went into her closet, and came not out again till nine, and then brought out with her a letter sealed addressed to her father, which she gave to her aunt, the Lady Everard, told her what had happened, and declared, that as soon as she was dead, it might be sent to him. The lady thought she was suddenly fallen mad, and thereupon sent presently away to Chelmsford for a physician and surgeon, who both came immediately; but the physician could discern no indication of what the lady imagined, or of any indisposition of her body; notwithstanding the lady would needs have her let blood, which was done accordingly. And when the young woman had patiently let them do what they would with her, she desired that the chaplain might be sent to read prayers; and when prayers were ended, she took her guitar and psalm-book, and sat down upon a chair without arms, and played and sung so melodiously and admirably, that her music-master, who was then there, admired at it. And near the stroke of twelve, she rose and sat herself down in a great chair with arms, and presently fetching a strong breathing or two, immediately expired, and was so suddenly cold, as was much wondered at by the physician and surgeon. She died at Waltham, in Essex, three miles from Chelmsford, and the letter was sent to Sir Charles, at his house in Warwickshire; but he was so afflicted with the death of his daughter, that he came not till she was buried; but when he came he caused her to be taken up, and to be buried with her mother, at Edmonton, as she desired in her letter.
DOROTHY DINGLEY AT LAUNCESTON, IN CORNWALL, Attested by the Rev. Mr. Ruddle, Minister of that town.
In the beginning of the year 1665, a disease happened in this town, and some of my scholars died of it. Among others who fell victims to its malignity, was John Elliott, the eldest son of Edward Elliott, of Treberse, Esq:a stripling about sixteen years of age, but of uncommon abilities. At his particular request. I preached' at the funeral, which happened on the 20th day of June, 1665. In my discourse I spoke some words in commendation of the young gentleman. An old gentleman, who was then in the church, was much affected with the discourse, and was often heard to repeat the same evening, a line which I quoted from Virgil :
“Et puer ipse contrari dignus.”
The cause of this old gentleman's concern was the applieation of my observations to his own son, who being about the same age, and but a few months younger than Mr. Elliott, was now. by a strange accident quite lost to his parents' hopes.
The funeral ceremony being over, on leaving the church I was courteously accosted by this old gentleman, and, with unusual importunity, almost forced against my will to his house that night; nor 'could I have even declined from his kindness, had not Mr. Elliott interposed. I excused myself for the present, but was constrained to promise to wait upon him at his own house the Monday following: This then seemed satisfaetory, but before Monday I received a message requesting that if possible I would be there on the Sunday. This second attempt I resisted, by answering that it was inconvenient. The gentleman sent me another letter on the Saturday, enjoining me by no means to fail in coming on the Monday. I was indeed startled at so much eagerness, and began to suspect that there must be some design in this excess of courtesy.
On the Monday I paid my promised devoir, and met with a reception as free as the invitation was importunate. There also I met a neighbouring minister, who pretended